


Climbing the Matterhorn (Or a Bookcase)

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Pineapple Investigations [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Psych
Genre: (How did this even happen?), (In the first draft I accidentally implied it), (Like this was not a thing in 'Cat in the Cradle'), (a certain character is bisexual as hell), (but nah there's no implication), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternative Universe - No Island, And he's somehow endearing anyway, Awkward Tension, Best Friends, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, But he's MY asshole character, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fake Psychics, Fluff and Crack, Here have a random mess of tags, I mean of course, If You Squint - Freeform, It's just a hot mess of feelings and strangeness, It's my fic, Light Angst, Like this becomes more of a disaster every time I work on it, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, Now it doesn't, Oliver Queen Being an Asshole, One Shot, POV Felicity Smoak, POV John Diggle, Pining, Private Investigators, Prompt Fill, So remember when this universe made sense?, Sorry Not Sorry, This is utter insanity, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, no vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Oliver and Felicity investigate their first case together.A continuation of "Cat in the Cradle (Or in Felicity's Apartment)," this time involving a few old faces, a few new faces, and a bookcase.Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon 2017.  Prompt:  get down.Rated M for discussions of sex that are a little above Teen.





	Climbing the Matterhorn (Or a Bookcase)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bushlaboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushlaboo/gifts).



> I swear to God, every time I write in this universe, it gets a little more convoluted and complicated. This is the weirdest shit I've ever written and it always turns into this hot mess that just spirals further out of control.
> 
> That being said, I _love_ some of the twists I put into this, and I regret nothing.
> 
> Shout out to bushlaboo for suggesting this. I'm beginning to think all of this universe is her fault.
> 
> Anyway, I'm always glad to see what y'all think. If not, thanks for just reading this random bit of insanity. :)
> 
> Cover art by the lovely AlexiaBlackbriar13.

 

* * *

 

John Diggle is having a weird day.

Work is usually very standard in SCPD Major Crimes.  A body shows up, he and his partner investigate.  They catch the killer.  Substitute as necessary with burglaries/robbers, luxury car theft/carjackers, and kidnappings/kidnappers.  There was even an ice cream truck robbery that one time, but they never talk about that.  Either way, there aren’t a lot of surprises in Major Crimes.  Not in Starling.

It’s weird that his partner is dismissing Digg’s ideas more than usual, not even bothering to reply.  Instead, Lance grumbles about queens and psychics and bosses who won’t see reason.   Diggle only takes offense to that last one.  Lyla is his wife, but they don’t talk about that either.  In fact, he isn’t even sure Lance knows; the plaque on her desk still reads _Lyla Michaels_ and neither of them wear their rings to work.

Needing some fresh air away from the weirdness, Diggle elects to check outside the home, examining the outside of the crime scene for any signs of entry.  So far it’s pretty cut and dried, but things get complicated when a Bowen is kidnapped.

Things also get weird when a blue Mini Cooper pulls up to the scene.  It’s so small he half expects twelve clowns to crawl out of it, but instead it’s a young blonde in a purple coat and a scruffy guy with way too much swagger in his step.  Curious, Diggle moves closer, keeping his eyes on the crime scene.

“…think this through?” the blonde is asking.  “Okay, say I’m going to help you—”

“Please,” the male replies, dismissing her with a grin that’s far too charming.  “Don’t be exactly half of an eleven-pound black forest ham.  We both know you’re going to help me.”

The blonde doesn’t give an inch, only steamrolling over the top of him.  “—with your newest enterprise, Oliver.”  She waves her hands wildly.  “Where are you going to set up office space?  What are you going to call this place?  How are you going to advertise?”

He flashes his pearly whites while the blonde just stares at him.  Diggle can’t help but snort; clearly Con Artist—Oliver, she called him—is used to getting his way, but Blondie is impervious to his charm.  “That’s why I need you, Smoak,” he answers.  What smoke has to do with this, John doesn’t know.  Maybe it’s a nickname.  “You’re the detailed planner.  I’m the big picture guy.”

Blondie is having precisely none of that.  “How are you going to get a commercial lease?  You don’t have a credit history.”

Con Artist shrugs.  “I was going to forge your signature as co-signer,” he replies.  Diggle’s eyebrows shoot up at his cavalier tone.

Retaliating with a poke to the shoulder, Blondie declares, “Oliver Queen, you are _not_ roping me into this misadventure.  My credit score is perfect, _in spite_ of the fact I’m always broke.”  She thumps him in the jaw, which earns a soft _ow_.  “I usually end up giving my money to _you_ , which is incredible because _you_ have a trust fund!”

“That I can’t touch until I’m thirty,” he reminds her.  Diggle nods once to himself; affluence explains a _lot_ about the guy with the sleazy grin.  “And my mom cut me off because I’m not serious, remember?  Who else can I depend on?”  He rolls his eyes.  “Besides, you’re being dramatic.  You don’t give me _that_ much money.”

“Oliver, I claimed you on my taxes last year!” Blondie replies, voice rising an octave.  “I buy your groceries and pay half the rent on the _bachelor pad_ ”—she spits the words with great disgust—“you share with Tommy.”

“You said I couldn’t move in with you,” Oliver reminds her, as though it’s a perfectly rational argument.

“And I’m still adamant about that,” she answers.  “I am not allowing your particular brand of debauchery into my quiet, happy apartment.  Which I apparently now share with an imaginary cat.”  Diggle’s eyes narrow at that as Blondie shoots Oliver an icy glare.  “I’m still angry about that.”

Entirely too smug, Oliver shrugs.  Diggle is starting to rethink the opinion that Blondie takes none of his bullshit.  Maybe she does, even if she’s kicking and screaming along the way.  “You’ll forgive me eventually,” he replies.  His expression softens, and his smile turns less showman and more sincere.  “You always do.”

“I have one friend in the world,” Blondie replies with a sigh, putting a hand to her head.  “Unfortunately, that happens to be _you_.”  Crossing her arms, she admits, “That makes it difficult to stay mad at you for very long.  The person I usually rant to when I have a bad day is _you_ , and it gets awkward when you’re the one causing my bad days.”

Catching her arm, Oliver turns her to face him, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.  “I’m sorry I make you miserable, Felicity,” he says to her quietly.  It might be the most sincere statement he’s ever made—certainly that Diggle has heard in the last few minutes.  “I don’t mean to.  I know I’m a screw-up but…”  He sighs.  “You’re my voice of reason.”  He winks at her.  “The angel on my shoulder.  And I just… I need you, I guess.”

“I know,” Felicity replies with a sigh.  After pulling herself together, she continues, “What’s your dental plan?”

Though he grins from ear to ear, Oliver dismisses her inquiry with a blasé shrug.  “Don’t get cavities.”

“And your health plan?”

“Same, but with hepatitis and shingles.”

Rolling her eyes, the blonde answers, “You didn’t get chicken pox as a kid.  You can’t _get_ shingles.”

He grins.  “Then half of my problems are already solved.”

John chuckles when she turns her eyes heavenward and shakes her head, as if praying for strength.  Her partner simply marches up to the young officer at the crime scene tape.  “Hi, Oliver Queen,” he introduces, flashing a smile that isn’t so genuine this time.  “The chief sent us.”  Digg’s head snaps up before he checks his phone.  Zero messages.  Apparently that argument they had about communication last week didn’t apply to work.  “We’re here to consult at the crime scene.”

Digg gives up the charade.  Oh, he _has_ to see this one for himself.

 

* * *

 

Felicity _knew_ it would go like this.

She knew, and yet she took off from work and came anyway.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Queen,” the cute guy in the police uniform stutters again.  The pin on his uniform reads _Allen_ , and he seems sweet enough.  Or maybe that’s her thing for cops talking again.  She can’t tell anymore.  “Chief Michaels said that only _you_ were allowed in.  Not Miss…?”  He trails off in search of a name.

“Smoak,” she replies instantly, and her hands do that weird thing again.  One of these days, she will be able to introduce herself to a cute guy without doing weird motions with her hands.  “Felicity Smoak.  But you can call me Felicity.”

“I’m Barry Allen,” he offers nicely, with a wide smile.

“Officer Allen, do your parents know you’re here?” Oliver interjects.  Felicity slaps his arm, but he just ignores her.  It would be so much easier to meet guys if her best friend didn’t suddenly morph into an asshole when she starts talking to one.  “I’m sorry, that was rude.”  Well, maybe not.  “Look, Larry—”  Or maybe she was right the first time.

“Barry,” he tries again, smile faltering.

“Here’s the deal,” Oliver continues with what Felicity thinks of as his showman’s smile.  It tries to convey warmth, but anyone who knows him can see right through it.  “The chief hired me to come investigate this crime scene.”  She glances around; they’re starting to gather a bit of a crowd.  One of them is a very intimidating man with arms the size of bowling balls.  The odds are _not_ in Oliver’s favor.  “I can’t do that without my…”  He trails off, fishing for a word.

Felicity crosses her arms.  “Go ahead,” she challenges.  “Call me your ‘assistant.’  I dare you.”

While Oliver has never really struck her as a _wise_ man despite his through-the-roof IQ, she can’t argue with his sense of self-preservation.  Meeting her eyes, he says with all seriousness, “Partner.  Smoak here is invaluable to my process.  She helps direct my focus.”  Felicity offers the barest of smiles; that’s actually _sweet_ for him.  The more cynical part of her wonders when the other shoe will drop.  “Her energy is very important to channeling the spirits.”

There it is.  Damn second shoe.

Bowling-Ball-Arms starts walking up to them, but he’s intercepted by the tall, wiry man who looks as though he’s utterly through with this shit.  Detective Lance looks the same as ever, down to the way his hair looks like he stuck a fork in an electrical outlet.  “The chief cleared it with me.  Queen here has the ‘gift.’”  The wild hand gestures definitely add to the sarcasm.  Felicity wonders if hers do that, too, or if Mr. Lance is just that talented.  He gestures to Bowling-Ball-Arms.  “This is my partner, John Diggle.”

Oliver motions to Felicity with a flourish and a smile that screams this won’t end well for her.  “This is _my_ partner, Veronica Mars.”  There it is.  That son of a bitch.  He _swore_ he’d stop doing this shit, but here he is doing it again.  One of these days, she might actually kill him, and if they buy this psychic detective malarkey, she might end up stabbing him in front of the police.

“I hate you so much,” she declares with all the venom she can muster.

“You look familiar, Miss Mars,” is all Lance says.

Though Felicity opens her mouth to speak, Oliver is faster.  “You might recognize her from the news,” he replies without missing a beat.  “She used to be a private detective back when she was in high school.  Broke open some big cases.”

Felicity has no idea how he even remembers the plot of that show; she made him watch one episode with her, and he slept through all but five minutes of it.  “I _told_ you to stop doing that,” she growls at him in a dark voice.

“No, you told me to stop using _porn star_ names,” Oliver replies, that same megawatt smile still firmly in place.  “You were very specific.”

Sometimes Felicity wishes she was as unruffled as him by everything.  _Tightly wound_ , he says when he feels the need to tease her about it.  But, then again, _she’s_ the one with a 401(k) and a career with the potential for advancement, while his idea of _stability_ is spending a week in the same job.  Maybe being tightly wound isn’t such a bad thing.

He lifts a shoulder.  “I still think you’d make a great Missy Rider.”  His eyes rake down her figure in that way she likes _way_ too much, but she slugs his shoulder anyway.  Oliver continues as though it hasn’t happened.  “Maybe we could experiment and find out.”

This time she resorts to ignoring him, flashing Detective Lance a smile with as much dignity as she can muster.  “Mr. Lance, my name is _Felicity Smoak_.  The reason I look familiar is because Sara and I went to prom together back in high school.”  Best decision of her life.  They sat against a back wall and made fun of everyone else, and the pictures turned out _fantastic_.  Sara Lance rocks the hell out of a tuxedo.  She also knew _exactly_ how to please a woman, which is more than Felicity can say about most of her former boyfriends.  “Oliver and I graduated together and I took pity on him.  That’s how we know each other.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Lance replies, “And you came with your boyfriend to a crime scene?”

A very indignant Oliver opens his mouth to answer, but she’s more than content to handle this one on her own.  “No,” she states bluntly, and Lance actually takes the time to look at her.  “ _No_.  Absolutely not.  When he says ‘partner,’ he means _work_ partner.”  She waves her hands for emphasis.  “The role of Oliver Queen’s girlfriend will _not_ be played by someone who had to find him via GPS fix on his cell phone.”  Felicity points to herself, making it clear that she is the not-girlfriend in this scenario.  “Girlfriends do not travel to the middle of an empty field in _Idaho_ after you drunk dial them.”  She pokes Oliver in the arm, which he protests.  “And they sure as hell don’t haul your ass back home when you’re naked and high and shouting about aliens.”

Before Lance can speak, her best friend does, cocky as ever.  Her attempt at shaming him meets with one great flaw:  Oliver has no shame.  “You forgot to mention the blue rabbit,” is all he answers.  “And that was just _one time_ , Smoak.”

“One time too many,” Felicity quips, poking him in the chest.  “I need _therapy_ for that particular trip, Oliver.”  Okay, maybe she doth protest too much, but it was difficult to get him in the car while he was screaming about how great shrooms are.  It was also difficult to _keep_ him in the car when they went by the park and he wanted to play on the swings.  “I saw _way_ more of you than I ever wanted to see.”  Even if the view was lovely.  “I couldn’t look at you for a _month_ after that.”

He just shrugs, eyes shining in that dangerous, playful way of his.  “I remember saying you should at least return the favor.”  His eyes rove over her figure, and suddenly it feels ten degrees hotter outside.  Oliver rolls his eyes.  “Don’t be Nick Cage’s accent from _Con Air_ ,” he retorts.  Nudging her shoulder, he throws her that lewd smile that gets him into so much trouble.  “You didn’t mind that much.  And it’s not like you haven’t thought about it from time to time.”

Sure she has, but that is one secret Felicity Smoak is taking to her grave.  Still, lying to Oliver is a giant exercise in futility.  “Why would I ever think about you naked?” she asks instead, hoping for a redirect.

“You’re a smart girl, Smoak,” Oliver replies with a salacious smile and a wink.  “You tell me.”

As always, Felicity’s mind follows his, except this time it’s straight into the gutter.  She slaps him, nose wrinkling even as her face burns.  “ _Ew_ , Oliver!”  she protests, slapping his arm several times.  He only chuckles in reply.   “You’re my _best friend_.  No.  Just… _no_.”

Oliver looks at her as if _she’s_ the weird one in this conversation.  “We were friends during all of those awkward teenage years.”  He leans in, studying her expression.  “Are you trying to tell me you have never _once_ thought about me while…”  He trails off, smiling like a cat who has just cornered a mouse.  “… _self-motivating?_ ”

“You are my _best friend_ , Oliver,” Felicity says, mostly to remind herself.  There are some things she wouldn’t admit even to him.  “Friends don’t think of friends while…”  She trails off, not sure how to phrase it, but knowing she isn’t going to repeat his description.  A thought hits her like a battering ram:  “Wait.  Are you saying you _did?_ ”

To his credit, Oliver has the decency to glance away, shrugging.  “Well, _yeah_ ,” he finally answers.  When he looks back at her, he doesn’t quite meet her eyes.  “I mean, not while we were in high school,” he rushes on to say.  “You were like thirteen when we became friends.  That would have been wrong.”  At least his moral compass points north on the important things.  He grins.  “But I’ll admit those two years of your goth phase were some of the hardest of my life.”  He winks.  “Pun completely intended.”

Her brain suddenly feels like that smoking computer she repaired this morning.  Instead of answering she turns back to the two cops in front of her and tries to salvage what’s left of her dignity.  “Kidnapping!” she squeaks.  So much for that dignity.  “I mean, missing person.  Didn’t you say something about a crime scene we could investigate, Detective Lance?  Please?”

“ _Now_ I remember you,” is all Lance says.  Not exactly a glowing endorsement.  He’s smiling, though, so that’s at least something.

“Smoak does have a point,” Oliver admits, his expression thoughtful.  “We’re here to investigate a crime.  So, Lancelot, what do you have for us?  Who’s missing?  When did they leave?”  He holds his hands out in front of him.  “I’ll need to get into the house before I can read the aura.”

Detective Diggle only glances at his senior partner with a lifted eyebrow, and Lance nods.  His face looks as though he’s been sucking on a lemon, but he doesn’t say anything.  “Clyde Bowen was kidnapped,” Diggle informs them.  “He’s pretty famous in the tabloids for wild stunts.”  His eyes flick over to Oliver, and Felicity only offers a long-suffering nod over her partner’s shoulder.  Diggle offers a tiny smile that makes him look less like he could kill her with his bare hands.

“He’s also a prize ass,” Oliver supplies helpfully.

As her mind travels back to the last time she was dragged to a Queen family dinner with company.  Clyde and Carter Bowen had been insufferable, with their pompous, entitled attitudes.  Felicity corrects dryly, “He wouldn’t win any prizes.”

Lance snorts, and she’s pretty sure that’s some semblance of a grin.  It feels like progress when he finally says, “You can go in, but try not to touch anything or tamper with evidence.”  Even if his voice is growly, it seems softer as he and his partner enter and disappear into the kitchen.

Felicity scurries along behind him, taking a deep breath as a chance to escape Oliver’s piercing eyes and all-knowing smiles for a moment.  She must not move fast enough because her ponytail swings.  She turns, and Oliver flicks it again.  “You know I didn’t mean to embarrass you, right?” is all he asks, in probably the closest thing she’ll ever get to an apology.  “I mean, you’re beautiful.  I do notice that, even if I don’t always say it.”  He leans in to kiss her temple.  “Not just on the outside, either.  You’ve always been good to me, even though I don’t really deserve it.  Thanks, Smoak.”

The thing about Oliver is that she can’t always settle him into one part of her mind.  Just when she thinks he’ll drive her to homicide, he turns around and says the sweetest things.  Shaking her head, she replies, “I can’t believe you’ve had a sexual fantasy about me, Oliver.”  She frowns.  “A sentence I never thought I’d have to say aloud.”

He only shrugs.  “Who said anything about past tense, Smoak?” he answers with a wink.  That smile lights up his face again.  “Or that it was just _one?_ ”

No.  No, no, no.  Felicity is _not_ going down this rabbit hole.  “Oliver, I love you, but I can’t do this with you—now or ever,” she declares, shoving him away.  The asshole only laughs.  “Just…”  God, just _what_ , exactly?  After years of being in love with him, she’s learned to bury down difficult thoughts, but no amount of burying her head in the sand is going to erase this.  “This is another topic for Tommy, okay?”

“Oh, I’ve talked to Tommy about it,” Oliver replies, turning to examine the doorway.  “In great detail.”  Yet again, Felicity wishes she could buy back her words and never say them again.  Her friend motions her ahead as they enter the house, and his eyes flick around the room at lightning speed.  “He does it, too, by the way.  Sometimes we compare notes.”  His eyes travel down to her canary yellow heels.  “You might not want to wear those shoes around him anymore.”

Before she can do more than gape at the implications behind that, Oliver studies a spot near the ceiling.  When he can’t reach it, he slides a tall bookshelf toward it.  When he climbs on the second shelf, it creaks under his weight.

“Oliver, get down from there!” Felicity hisses at him.  He turns to look at her with wide eyes, looking just as caught as when she found him in bed with Sara eight years ago.  She would have been pissed if they were still together.  “Even if that’s an oak bookcase, I’m not sure it will stand up to your weight.”  With a wry smile, she adds, “And the last time you tried to climb on anything, it was the stage at the strip club when you thought you were going to work the pole—and you broke your arm.”

He grins at her, a perpetual partner in crime.  “I might have been a little drunk,” he admits, “but I’m telling you, I learned how to work a pole that summer I worked the bar at the Pink Garter.”  Oliver winks at her conspiratorially.  “I have smooth moves.  The ladies taught me all their tricks.”  After a moment, his head tilts to the side.  “You’re a gift, Smoak.  There aren’t many women in the world who would take their best friend to the strip club and buy him a lap dance.”  He chuckles.  “And you should have seen the look on Tommy’s face when you slid a twenty down that stripper’s thong.”

Slipping her shoes off, Felicity shrugs.  “She had been flashing me glances all night and she was _great_ on that pole.  The least I could do was tip her for it.”  Motioning to the bookshelf, she adds, “Since I’m the better climber, let me see what that is before you actually kill yourself this time.  Staring up at it, she asks, “What do you think it is?”

“If I’m right,” he answers with a grim expression, “it’s a bullet hole.”  He motions toward her.  “I’ll help you up.”

“Don’t stare up my skirt,” she warns him, which only earns her a laugh and a smile.  Felicity pokes his shoulder.  “Oliver Jonas Queen, I will smite you if I find you looking.”

He scoffs.  “Felicity, I’ve helped you do laundry before,” he reminds her with a roll of his eyes.  “There is _nothing_ in your panty drawer worth staring at.  Your idea of flirty underwear is that cotton set with red lip prints all over it.”  One corner of his mouth lifts into a dimpled grin.  “The next time Hurricane Sara breezes through town, ask her to help you pick out a set of lingerie.  In between her screwing your brains out, I mean.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Felicity frowns at her friend.  Of all of her relationships—both men and women—it’s _that_ one Oliver has always disapproved of.  Sara is always traveling for her cryptic job ( _I just work for the government, Felicity,_ is all she’ll ever say), but every great once in a while, she spends a week in Starling City and they both blow off some steam before going back to their normal lives.

As she climbs up the first shelf of the bookcase, Felicity asks to keep her mind off her fear of heights, “What is it with you and my relationship with Sara?” she demands.  “It’s easy.  It’s uncomplicated.  You have relationships that never make it past the bedroom yourself.”  Climbing to the next shelf, she adds, “And she and I are friends.  And occasionally we’re friends who have sex.  It’s a lot easier to go back to her than to explain to someone new that I’m attracted to both men and women.  And that my best friend is a guy.  People don’t always get those two things.”

Oliver’s hands wrap around her waist.  “Felicity,” he says with a sigh.  Whatever comes next will be serious; he only calls her by her first name when he means it.  “I have no problems with whoever you want to have in your bed,” he assures her.  “I don’t care if they’re a woman or a man.  I don’t even care if your relationships are completely physical.”  Her knees go a little weak as she climbs the next shelf, but she doesn’t know if it’s the height or Oliver’s voice.  “What I have issues with is someone coming in once a year and then walking away.  I hate how the week after she leaves, you’re quiet and sad and lonely.  I don’t like her treating you like you’re disposable.  You deserve better than that.”

She huffs.  “I have mint chip ice cream, rom-coms, and you,” Felicity replies.  “With the three of you, I can survive anything.”  Maybe the ice cream melts a little too fast, and the rom-coms are heteronormative, and she doesn’t have Oliver the way she wants, but it’s enough for her.

Reaching up, she can finally touch the spot with her fingers.  It’s a decent-sized hole—bigger than the holes that picture hangers left in her walls.  She pokes a finger through it.  “This is as round as my finger, Oliver, and there’s something metal wedged in there.”  When she leans forward to examine it closer, her foot slips.

Felicity expects to fall, but Oliver’s arms wrap around her.  When she turns around to face him, his smile is breathtaking.  “I’ve got you, Smoak,” he assures her.  He brushes an errant strand of her ponytail out of her face.  “I know you usually have to save _my_ ass, but don’t forget I’ve got you, too, okay?”

Before she can attempt to decipher that, he pulls away, glancing up at the wall again.  “Is it too early for me to have a theory?” he asks, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.  Felicity imagines that’s how he’d look if he stuck a fork in an electrical socket—even if it’s usually _her_ that gets shocked by it.

“Can you at least wait until we see some actual evidence?” she snarks back.

Oliver only smiles.  “Well, if it would make you happy, I guess I could.”


End file.
